


To Quote Malcolm Tucker; or, Get The Fuck In or Fuck The Fuck Off

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is cockblocker and a prick tease and John is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Quote Malcolm Tucker; or, Get The Fuck In or Fuck The Fuck Off

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Sherlock lets someone assume he and John are a couple/implies that they are and John gets wicked pissed at Sherlock, not because he minds people thinking they're a couple but because Sherlock gives John every impression that he doesn't want to be with him and John is sick to death of the mixed signals. Title courtesy of the anon on the meme's brilliant comment and is slight paraphrase of a Malcolm Tucker quote (The Thick of It.).
> 
> Thanks to and my other lovely beta for making this better.

  
“Honestly, John, I fail to see the problem.”

John rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“No,” he sighed. “You never do, do you?”

Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look.

“Really John, you shouldn’t try to be cryptic. ‘Melodramatically misunderstood’ isn’t a good look on you.”

But it is on you? John thought. He sighed. Of course it was. Sherlock, with his sweeping coat, his sulks, his brilliant deductions, was all melodrama. And when he was around Mycroft… It gave John a headache just thinking about it.

“Sherlock, I am not going to go to a gay club with you and pretend to be your boyfriend just so you can question a bartender.”

“But why not?” Sherlock demanded, petulant. “You’ve done much more difficult things for me. Remember that time with the small intestines in the – ”

“Yes, thank you; I do not need you to remind me about that.” John cut him off, suppressing a shudder. Really, the things he did for Sherlock Holmes.

And there it was. There was John’s problem. He perpetually found himself doing all manner of dangerous, insane, and frankly illegal things for his mad genius of a flatmate. He had never probed too deeply into his own motivations for the various things he got up to for Sherlock, and he didn’t want to start now.

“Look, you don’t need me there,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “Why can’t you just go on your own? Most people go to a nightclub to pull. It’s not like you being there alone would draw any attention. I’ve got a date.”

“Yes, but – ” Sherlock stopped abruptly, looking, dear Lord, surely not, faintly embarrassed. He appeared to steel himself and continued. “The last time I was in one of these establishments, it was rather hard for me to remain…inconspicuous.” The embarrassed expression was back, and Sherlock was determinedly not looking at John.

John stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending, and then burst out laughing. Of course. _Of course_ Sherlock bloody Holmes couldn’t go into a gay club without every man in there trying it on. Just look at the man. He was indecently tall, elegantly pale, his cheekbones should have been a mathematical impossibility, and his arse… well, John was stopping that thought right there.

Sherlock was, by this point, looking vaguely offended by John’s laughter. John attempted to compose himself.

“Alright, fair call,” he said, “but I’m still not going with you. It’s taken me two months to convince Sarah to go out with me again, and I’m not blowing her off –” again, he thought, “to go to a gay club and ward off all your unwanted admirers.”

The annoyed look on Sherlock’s face was nothing new, but John was quite proud of himself for standing up to Sherlock for once, for not giving in to another of his somewhat ill-conceived schemes.

“Fine,” returned Sherlock icily. “I have no doubt you will have a stimulating evening of dull conversation, mediocre food and unsatisfying sex. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of any of that.”

With that, he flounced off, whirling his coat behind him in true Sherlock-ian fashion.

John picked up his tea and smiled to himself. An evening full of mediocrity? Perfect. It was a rare commodity in his life these days.

  
***

 

John was less happy later that evening, when he spotted a familiar mop of dark hair lurking at the bar of the restaurant he’d taken Sarah to. Less happy, but not surprised.

“Excuse me for a minute,” he said politely to Sarah, not wanting to alert her to any kind of Sherlock-related goings on. There was only so much a woman would take. He made his way over to the bar as quickly as he could. Sherlock had seen him coming and stopped hunching over the bar in a poor attempt to hide himself.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed at Sherlock, sparing a look over his shoulder at Sarah, hoping she wasn’t watching him. She was reapplying her lipstick; John took this as a good sign.  
Sherlock, for all his lurking, didn’t look remotely abashed.

“I need you, John,” he said, a slight wheedling note in his voice. “I need someone to keep an eye on the bartender’s girlfriend while I talk to him. She’s a waitress at the club. I’m certain she’s involved in some way, and I need you to distract her. I can’t let her see me talking to him.”

“No, Sherlock, I already told you, I’m busy tonight. For once, I’d just like a normal night out, with a normal girl, with the possibility of some normal sex at the end of it.”

John didn’t add that he had (more often than he was comfortable with) imagined some of his adventures with Sherlock ending with some spectacularly unbelievable not-normal sex. He’d a feeling any kind of sex with Sherlock would be just as frustrating, exhilarating and, well, exhausting, as the man himself was.

“But, John – ”

John didn’t wait to hear the rest of it, stalking back to the table instead. He slid into his chair, smiling at Sarah over the soup. She smiled back, and he was sure that this evening wasn’t going to be a total bust, as long as Sherlock –

“John.”

Of course. Sherlock _would_ follow him back to the table. Sherlock would not stop until he got what he wanted.

“Sarah,” Sherlock added as an afterthought. He nodded slightly at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. John didn’t blame her. Sherlock turning up on their dates never ended well. Sherlock dropped into a spare seat at their table and leaned towards John.

“John, I need your help with a very delicate case,” Sherlock began, his voice low and urgent, clearly trying to communicate to Sarah that this was life or death. Part of John wanted to laugh – he wasn’t sure Sarah would consider him pretending to be Sherlock’s date life or death.

“Sherlock, I already told you – ” He was checked by Sherlock placing his hand on John’s arm.

“Please,” Sherlock all but murmured, his hand stroking John’s arm lightly. “I can’t do this without you.”

John blinked. Oh, this just wasn’t fair. Sherlock was absolutely not playing fair. His voice, unbearably sensual at the best of times, was downright seductive now. John couldn’t help but lean into Sherlock’s touch a little and turn towards him.

Sherlock was looking at him intently, clearly channelling all his energy through those chillingly grey eyes of his. It was as if he had some kind of internal backup generator, John thought wildly. No one should be able to just turn on their eyes like that. He made a valiant effort to marshal his thoughts.

“Sherlock, we talked about this…” He trailed off as Sherlock’s other hand came to rest on his thigh, not high enough to be downright suggestive, but certainly too high to be entirely appropriate. Sherlock had widened his eyes a little, making them beseeching, and John knew, he just _knew_ , that Sherlock was acting, but the role was far too close to many of his own fantasies to allow him any room for properly rational thought.

“You should go with him, John,” Sarah said suddenly, drawing him out of his daze. He looked across the table at her, feeling incredibly guilty. She looked a curious mixture of amused and resigned. “It sounds important. And let’s face it, if you don’t, you’re probably going to end up tied to a chair again, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be involved this time.”

“Sarah, I – ”

“It’s fine,” she cut him off. “Go. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

Sherlock looked delighted and was already tugging John to his feet. John allowed himself to be drawn up, fishing his wallet out and dropping enough money on the table to cover both their starters and anything else Sarah wanted.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he began, feeling even guiltier that he wasn’t actually all that sorry. Sarah interrupted him again.

“Go,” she said, “Catch the bad guys. Try not to get too badly hurt. Look after him.” She smiled at him, a little fond and indulgent, like she knew something he didn’t. Except that he did, he really, really did know. Wished he didn’t know, in fact. And Sherlock was _still_ touching him. He had his hand on John’s lower back, almost possessively, and John allowed himself to be guided out the door.

The minute they were outside, Sherlock’s hand disappeared, and he set off briskly down the street. John shook his head. One of these days he was going to have a word with Sherlock about inappropriate behaviour. Practically seducing John out of a date certainly fell into that category.

  
***

John glanced warily around him, searching the dank, unwelcoming alley for signs of danger. Muggers, needles, hell, a wolf wouldn’t surprise him at this point. In his time with Sherlock, he’d seen more than his fair share of the disreputable side of London, and tonight may just have taken the cake - it was a seedy, filthy little alleyway behind an even seedier and filthier pub. Sherlock had worked out that their suspect spent most of his evenings here, and they were waiting for him to emerge via the back door, hopefully drunk enough to be incautious.

John could think of quite a few ways he’d rather be spending his evening. Can’t believe I gave up a date for this, he thought darkly. He briefly considered whether he should start seeing his therapist again, as his actions were clearly those of a lunatic. And speaking of lunatics… John glanced up at Sherlock, who was standing absolutely still beside him, leaning on the wall and watching the door with a single-minded focus John had to admire.

Trying to get some blood circulating again, John moved around a little, rubbing his hands together and jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. Five more minutes of this, and he was quite sure he’d never use his fingers again. He stopped abruptly when Sherlock shot him a look that managed to convey the sentiment _I don’t know why I bring you, you’re making far too much noise and are going to get us in trouble, I don’t understand why you can’t just bloody stand still for five minutes_ in its entirety. John wondered when Sherlock had become so effective at non-verbal communication.

They stood there in silence for a few minutes more, John steadily growing colder and colder, until he was almost ready to burst into the pub, bop the suspect on the head and drag him bodily outside for Sherlock to question. He looked at Sherlock again, wondering if he’d object to such measures. All his thoughts stopped for a moment, however, when he realised that Sherlock was no longer watching the door. Sherlock was watching _him_ \- he had transferred all that relentless concentration to John himself and for a moment, John was breathless.

Before he could get further than _What the bloody hell is he -_ , the door Sherlock had until recently had his attention fixed on burst open. John barely had time to process that in addition to their suspect, there were three almost painfully huge men crowding the doorway, before he found himself pushed up against the wall and Sherlock’s tall frame pressed against him.

“Sherlock, what the – ”

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered urgently. He bent his head and leaned in until his lips brushed against John’s ear. “I made a mistake.” John, had his thoughts not been rather busily engaged just at present, would have keeled over from the shock of hearing those words emerging from Sherlock’s admittedly rather perfect lips. “He’s not working alone,” Sherlock continued rapidly. “ _Of course_ he’s not working alone.” John could hear the disgusted note in Sherlock’s voice. “There’s no way he could have moved both the bodies on his own. Clearly one of those men was his accomplice, probably the one with the blue jacket, judging by his shoes, but possibly the blond one too.”

John was having a rather hard time following this, given the proximity of Sherlock’s mouth to his ear, but he pulled himself together enough to ask:

“But why are you crowding me against this wall and whispering in my ear?”

It came out more plaintive than he would have liked.

Sherlock made an impatient sound, but one of his hands settled on John’s waist, the other on his neck.

“Do you particularly want to question him right now? I know you’re reasonably accomplished at hand-to-hand combat, and I am not unskilled myself, but I’d rather not test our mettle against these three, especially given that you are not fully recovered from the flu and are thus rendered weaker than usual.”

With this, Sherlock lowered his head to John’s neck and started _nuzzling_.

A number of thoughts were competing for attention in John’s head. He could scramble together enough brain cells to realise that Sherlock was trying to shield them, make them invisible, just another couple attempting an ill-advised back-alley shag in a disreputable part of London.

Another part of his brain was preoccupied with how good it felt to have Sherlock pressed up against him like this, his coat falling around them, his mouth hot on John’s neck.

Yet another part was thinking how spectacularly badly this could end, given that in approximately three minutes, he was going to be completely hard and too turned on to string two words together. He was also slightly worried that the men emerging from the pub may not be too impressed with the sight of two men getting off in front of them and decide to beat them up anyway.

The final, and largest, part of his brain was thinking _Oh God, don’t stop_.

Feeling that he should, perhaps, be participating in this charade, John brought one of his hands up to stroke through Sherlock’s hair, gripping his waist with his other hand. Sherlock made a small noise of surprise: whether at the contact, or at his ability to catch on to the plan, John wasn’t sure. Sherlock made another noise, which if John hadn’t known better, he would have taken for one of approval, and pressed even closer. He wrapped his arm entirely around John’s waist, and their bodies were completely pressed together from thigh to neck.

Speaking of necks, John thought almost hysterically, as Sherlock began to actually press little kisses to his neck. He had the presence of mind, however, to wind both his arms around Sherlock’s neck at this point, not trusting himself with his hands anywhere near Sherlock’s belt.

John closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything except Sherlock's lips on his skin. He badly wanted to lose himself in the moment, to turn his head slightly, and press his lips to Sherlock’s, which was exactly why he needed to think about Mycroft in drag. When that only made him suppress a choke of laughter, he changed tack. _Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate._ He paused for a moment, his breath catching as Sherlock did something with his tongue.  _Metacarpals, proximal phalanges -  
_  
He was suddenly dizzyingly cold again, and he opened his eyes to the sight of Sherlock stepping away from him, his eyes on the exit to the street. It took John a moment to realise they were alone in the alley again. His head felt like it was full of cotton wool, candy floss and other pink fluffy things. He shook it experimentally. He became aware Sherlock was speaking to him.

“Come on, John! Marsden’s gone off on his own, looks like the others are going down the road for another drink. We need to follow him, he may even take us to his hideout!” Sherlock’s voice vibrated with energy. His eyes were sparkling, his cheeks flushed. He gripped John’s arm briefly with… _excitement_? John wondered, before Sherlock took off down the street, leaving John to follow him as best he could, as he always did.

***

The barista behind the counter was watching him. He was sure. No two ways about it.

John knew this for a fact because he’d spent the last twenty minutes watching her, trying to deduce (goddamn it, he’d never be able to use that word again, would he?) her level of interest. He currently rated it above _I wouldn’t say no_ , but below _I want you to clear the table with one sweep and take me over it._ Which gave him a lot of room to work with.

He drained the last of his coffee. He had fifteen minutes before he had to be back at work, and it took five minutes to walk there. Which gave him ten minutes to flirt. No problem. He didn’t honestly need more than five, usually, but he was willing to put in the extra effort this time. The barista was very pretty, in a sweet, lollipop kind of way. Short and curvy, with light brown hair and wide green eyes. She seemed to smile a lot too, which was a welcome change. Far too young for him too, but he brushed that thought aside.

Straightening his jacket slightly, he made his way over to the counter.

“Can I get you anything else?” she said immediately, smiling at him unreservedly, her hands busy fiddling with the sugar sachets.

A perfect opening, John thought.

“Well, one coffee a day is usually my limit, but I’m sure you could tempt me into something else.” He returned her smile and leaned forward slightly on the counter.

She blushed prettily and laughed a little.

“Well let’s see,” she teased. “We have an excellent selection of decaffeinated drinks, tailor-made for people like you. A glass of water, perhaps?” She was still smiling at him and had now leaned forward on the counter as well, until their faces were no more than three feet apart.

John took a moment to enjoy how lovely and innocent and _normal_ she was. Screw the schedule, he decided..

“I was thinking maybe something a little stronger? Say a glass of wine?”

“Well, unfortunately, we don’t sell alcohol here,” she returned, the puckish twinkle in her eye assuring him she caught his meaning.

He pretended to ponder this deeply for a moment.

“I hear the pub down the street may have something more along those lines,” she added, her blush deepening slightly. John grinned at her, but before he could speak -

“I’m afraid he has other plans tonight,” came a rumbling voice from behind him.

John leapt back from the counter and spun around.

Sherlock was closer than he’d expected. Much closer.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He wasn’t even surprised.

“I needed you. I know you’re on your lunch break, and you didn’t have coffee this morning, so I knew you’d be out getting some. This was the only place near enough to the surgery for you to be bothered to go.” Sherlock shrugged. “It was no great leap.”

John stood for a minute, staring at him, and turned back to the barista. She was looking at him with a puzzled air and her smile had vanished.

“As I was about to say,” was as far as he got before Sherlock was actually pressing against his side and addressing the barista.

“I’ll have a regular latte, three sugars, extra hot,” he told her peremptorily. She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before stalking away to the coffee machine.

“Sherlock, please, for the love of all that is scientific, will you tell me what the bloody hell you need me for _now_.”

Sherlock looked slightly abashed, which John was experienced enough to know was not a common look at him. It suits him though, he thought a little viciously.

“We were out of milk,” Sherlock said. “And marshmallows,” he added a moment later, as if this improved things.

John stared at Sherlock in frank astonishment, trying to work out what he had missed. Leaving aside Sherlock’s unnatural and rather worrying addiction to marshmallows, he was utterly confused. Sherlock’s bizarre interruptions of his life generally had some life-or-death related purpose.

“Milk,” he said finally.

“And marshmallows.” Sherlock nodded.

John wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh hysterically or hit Sherlock over the head with a chair.

“And you couldn’t just go to the shop yourself?” he asked in what he thought was an admirably calm voice.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Shops. Boring. Too many people, and I don’t like the chip-and-pin machines. And you have my card.”

John sighed and reached for his wallet. That much was true. He generally took care of the shopping (not to mention the bills and the rent), since Sherlock couldn’t be trusted not to return from Tesco with sixteen different brands of shampoo to experiment with and no beans. And that was when he bothered to go at all.

The barista set Sherlock’s drink down in front of them, and none too gently. John was suddenly aware that Sherlock was standing much too far inside his personal space. He’d grown so used to Sherlock doing this that he almost didn’t notice any more. Almost.

In one smooth moment, Sherlock took John’s wallet from him and stepped a little closer to the counter to pay, leaning completely across John. He handed the barista a note and drew his hand back to settle it companionably on John’s shoulders.

John tried to shrug it off, but Sherlock only gripped him harder and played a little with the hair near John’s shoulder.

The barista held out the change, no trace of her pretty smile left.

“Have a nice day,” she said brusquely.

“Look,” John began. She stared frostily at him, and he sighed.

“Thanks,” he said, in a small voice, turning to leave.

Once they were outside, John didn’t give Sherlock the chance to drop his hand, which had lingered on John’s shoulder all the way out of the café. Instead, he shoved it off himself, pushed Sherlock away, and started striding in the direction of the surgery.

“John. John? John!”

Sherlock was following him. John stopped and turned to him.

“I’ve made you angry,” Sherlock said slowly. He was watching John with cautious eyes, appraising.

John laughed.

“Yes, yes you have. Excellent deduction.”

“This is about the coffee girl?”

“You really are on fire today.”

“Please, she was far too young for you,” Sherlock scoffed. “You surely can’t expect to have a meaningful relationship with someone who's barely out of adolescence. ”

“She was at least 25," John shouted, before realising he was arguing about the wrong thing. "And that's not the point! Maybe I’m not looking for a meaningful relationship. Maybe I just want to spend five minutes with someone whose idea of a night out doesn’t include getting kidnapped, strangled, shot at, drowned, blown up or poisoned!”

John was really angry now. He’d let this go on for far too long, and now he couldn’t stop the words.

“John – ”

“And even if I was looking for a relationship, could you kindly tell me how that is any of your fucking business? Who I do or do not date has absolutely nothing to do with you, and I don’t care for your opinion on the subject. After all, it’s _not exactly your area_.”

John couldn’t help but utter these last words with a sneer. He was furious, sick of Sherlock and his bloody mixed signals, and he hadn’t had sex in four months. He directed all his energy into glaring at his stupidly attractive flatmate.

Sherlock looked… hurt, John realised. Not mildly offended, which was par for the course for Sherlock (everything offended him to some degree; John’s typing, Mrs Hudson’s cat, Anderson’s continued existence, the criminal classes' inability to be original), but hurt in a raw, slightly ugly way, which made John’s insides twist uncomfortably. Sherlock banished the expression from his face a moment later, but John had seen it.

He was breathing rather heavily and suddenly aware that he was Making A Scene, something his mother had berated him for more than once as a child. He made a decision.

“Look, Sherlock, I have to go to work. I can’t talk about this right now. I can’t. I’ll see you later.”

John didn’t wait for a reply, turning and hurrying off to the surgery as quickly as his shaking legs could take him.

***

The flat was empty when John got home. He sighed with relief and started to make himself a cup of tea. He was still not ready to deal with Sherlock. It had been a busy afternoon at the surgery; he’d barely been able to catch his breath, let alone think through what had happened earlier.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes as he waited for the kettle to boil. He wasn't even sure he wanted to think about it now – most of him just wanted to drink his tea and fall asleep in front of the telly. But this situation had to be dealt with, before it got… out of hand. Well, more out of hand than him and Sherlock practically having a shouting match in the middle of the street.

John made the tea and took it into the living room, heading for his chair. He stopped when he saw that Sherlock had, despite the ample room on the coffee table, kitchen table and floor, decided to stack what looked like every unused Petri dish in London on his chair. He turned away from it with a sigh. Setting his tea down carefully on the coffee table, he lay back on the sofa, squirming his hips until his was comfortable.

He needed to think, to process. Calmly and rationally. Like Sherlock, he thought wryly. In fact, stretched out like this, with his eyes closed, he was in exactly the position he’d seen Sherlock so many times. Might as well apply his methods, John decided. Time for some brutal honesty.

Fact one: he was attracted to Sherlock. He’d been aware of this fact for some time, but not particularly disturbed by it. Sherlock was, objectively speaking, very attractive, and John had always had a weakness for dark hair and light eyes.

Fact two: Sherlock was aware of John’s attraction to him and was not above using it to get what he wanted. Case in point: the date with Sarah. John was not terribly surprised by this. Everything Sherlock did was calculated. He’d seen Sherlock lie, flatter and flirt his way into a host of different places he wasn’t supposed to be. He was perhaps a little hurt that Sherlock would do the same to him, but again, not terribly surprised.

Where did this leave him? He could just tell Sherlock to stop with the flirting, but a) it probably wouldn’t work, and b) John rather liked it. He sighed. He _did_ like it when Sherlock ran his fingers over him, when he leaned in close, when he smiled. Of course, he didn't like it so much afterwards, when Sherlock had got what he wanted and taken off, leaving John feeling foolish, angry and more than a bit turned on.

John screwed up his eyes and fought the temptation to thump his head with a cushion. There was something prickling at the corners of his mind, something that he didn’t want to think about, brutal honesty or no.

 _Deep breaths, John. You can do this. You invaded Afghanistan, after all.  
_  
The thought made him smile.

The big problem, he knew, wasn't in the two facts he’d already outlined in his mind. In fact, if all he wanted was a quick shag with a gorgeous man, that’d be fine. He’d probably jump Sherlock the minute he walked through the door. It would at least be worth a try. The big problem, the thing that he had been consciously pushing aside for weeks now, was fact number three.

Fact three: he really rather liked Sherlock. He liked his razor-sharp mind, his surprising sense of humour (oh, it was there, you just had to have a sense of humour equally as black to see it), his genuine disinterest in popular culture, his complete lack of regard for social mores (except, of course, as a means to an end), the original and often slightly disturbing way he saw the world. Yes, sometimes Sherlock made him so frustrated and angry that he wanted to break the idiot’s violin bow over his head. Sometimes Sherlock’s lack of empathy and general disregard for the feelings of others horrified him. But at the same time, everything Sherlock did and said was so essentially Sherlock that John couldn’t help but love him a little bit for it.

Oh. And there was that word, the one he’d tried never to use in the same paragraph, let alone sentence, as Sherlock’s name.

Bugger.

John was a sensible man. He was reasonably self-aware, when he wanted to be. Lying there on the sofa, he could honestly say that he didn’t think he was in love with Sherlock. He’d been in love before, he knew how it sat on a person. What he felt for Sherlock danced dangerously around the edges of it, ready to leap off at any moment. But no, he wasn’t entirely in love with Sherlock. Not yet. But if things continued as they were, it was only a matter of time. Unless I die of sexual frustration first, he thought.

Along with his own self-awareness came a certain understanding of others. John might not be able to read their history in their clothes and their posture, he might not be able to tell who they’d been shagging by their lipstick and hairstyle, but he could read other things about them; how they were feeling, what they wanted. But he couldn’t for the life of him work out what Sherlock wanted.

Most of the evidence seemed to suggest that Sherlock was perfectly happy with the way things were: Sherlock liked him, John was well aware of the fact; he knew he was Sherlock’s best, quite possibly his only, friend; he’d never seen Sherlock show a genuine sexual or romantic interest in anyone.

But there were times when John wondered, just a little. He wasn’t ever sure if it was just him projecting his own desires, reading things into Sherlock’s words and actions that simply weren’t there, but still he noticed them. The way Sherlock looked at him sometimes, as if he was actually trying to work John out, like he was a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet. Not just probing the surface, absorbing all the relevant data and churning out a deduction, but digging, poking, questioning. It was an uncomfortable experience.

Sherlock was touching him more too, John realised, not just when they were out, or when he was trying to get John out of a date, but around the flat. He’d been so preoccupied with trying not to react to these touches that he’d completely failed to question them. Sherlock would brush his fingers along John’s shoulders as he passed him at the breakfast table. He’d grab his arm when telling him a story. He’d once, John remembered, been so excited about a new piece of evidence turning up that he’d jumped up and hugged John tightly before turning away looking slightly embarrassed.

And then there was the fact that Sherlock seemed absolutely determined that John would never have sex again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date, hell, the last time he’d spoken to a woman for more than five minutes without Sherlock finding a way to get rid of her. Sometimes there was a genuine, if alarming, reason (“Let’s go, John, the arsonist was an athlete at university, we need to go now if we’re going to catch him before he sets fire to another school!”) Sometimes, like today, the reason bordered on ridiculous.

John’s eyes flew open when he heard the front door banging. Sherlock thundered up the stairs, moving at a hundred miles an hour as usual, and flung open the door to their flat.

And suddenly, John was angry again.

Sherlock and his stupid mixed signals and his stupid flirting and his stupid hair. His ability to play John like his violin, to get exactly what he wanted from him and never think about what John wanted. His stupid, stupid, stupid need to always be right, to always be the best, the smartest, for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of it. His stupid way of always fixing what was wrong with John’s life – his leg, his nightmares, his tremor. He was angry at Sherlock, not just for making John want him, but for making John need him. Because he did, he needed Sherlock. Even if they were only friends for the rest of his life, he didn’t think he could walk away from his maddening, wonderful friend.

“John?” Sherlock sounded slightly wary, as if afraid John was going to start shouting again.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he returned tightly, willing himself to be calm. He sat up.

Sherlock still looked apprehensive as he took off his coat and unwound his scarf, but he moved towards John and sat down on the other end of the sofa.

This surprised John. He’d expected Sherlock to avoid him, to avoid this conversation, for as long as possible. He was even more surprised by what Sherlock did next.

“We need to talk,” he said.

John stared at Sherlock. The man was fiddling nervously with his shirt cuff and looking everywhere except at John’s eyes. In fact, he was behaving entirely unlike himself. None of his supreme self-confidence was in evidence. If John didn’t know better, he’d say Sherlock looked almost penitent.

But he did know better, which led him to conclude that this was Sherlock simply acting penitent. It was a damn good act too, John could concede. He’d seen Sherlock in a whole host of different roles, and this was certainly one of his best. He reflected, not for the first time, that the London stage had lost a fine actor when Sherlock had decided his talents could be best exercised in the pursuit of the criminal classes.

Before he had time to properly process this, Sherlock was speaking.

“John, I know you – ”

“Stop.”

John could barely get the word out, his jaw was so tightly clenched. His anger from earlier that day and from just a few minutes ago was still there, simmering under his skin. Sherlock looked up, surprise written plainly on his face.

“What – ” he began, before John cut him off again.

“No, seriously Sherlock, stop talking.”

Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he most certainly did not stop talking.

“I don’t understand, why won’t you just allow me to – ”

John exploded.

“Because I am sick to death of this whole ridiculous business, Sherlock! And I know you, I know how bloody clever you are with your words, I know that given half the chance you’ll be explaining everything to me so bloody logically that I’ll probably find myself agreeing with you! I’ll probably end up inviting you along on my dates, for fuck’s sake.”

John was off the sofa by this point, pacing like a man possessed. He made himself stop, drawing several deep breaths.

Sherlock looked slightly stunned, and John was fairly certain that this was not an act. Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again.

A moment later, he tried again.

“John, if you’d be so good as to explain to me precisely what it is that has made you so angry, I feel I may be able to be of better use to you,” he said finally, his voice as smooth and unruffled as it always was, not betraying any of the consternation showing on his face.

It made John even angrier.

“Precisely what… Are you fucking kidding me?” He demanded. “No, really, is this a fucking joke? I’ll tell you what has made me so angry, Sherlock. It’s the fact that every single time I’ve been on a date for the last four and a half months, you show up with some bloody ridiculous reason and practically drag me out with you. Hell, even when I’m not on a date, if I’m just talking to a woman, you find some sort of reason to interrupt. I’m fucking tired of it, all right?”

Sherlock’s face had lost its slightly bewildered look, and the sneer currently occupying it sat much more naturally.

“Oh, I’m sorry, John, I didn’t realise your dates were more important than catching criminals. I’ll be sure to remember that next time. I’ll just go after six heavily armed bank thieves on my own, shall I?”

“I can’t believe you’re – Sherlock, you interrupted my conversation with that woman today because you needed _marshmallows_!” John felt ridiculous even saying it.

Sherlock didn’t look the least bit troubled by this.

“It was _important_ , we were out of milk. I know you like to have tea when you get home, so – ” Sherlock cut himself off this time, looking slightly flustered.

John gaped at him, not sure where that sentence had being going to end. He brushed it off, needing to have his say before he lost any of his righteous indignation.

“Look, if there’s a case, if you need my help, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he said in an attempt to be somewhat calm and reasonable. “I’d just like you to, in all other situations, stay the fuck out of my love like.”

And there it was again. The hurt look he’d seen on Sherlock’s face outside the coffee shop. John wasn’t entirely sure how Sherlock got to be the one offended by this conversation, but it certainly wasn’t helping his mood.

“Fine,” Sherlock said icily, standing and looking ready to depart the room in a melodramatic sweep.

“No, Sherlock, we’re not done yet,” he all but yelled at the man.

“What now?” Sherlock looked positively furious.

John was almost shaking with poorly concealed rage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry, but he suspected it had involved Harry, a bottle of whisky, and his sixth form girlfriend.

“It’s got to stop, Sherlock.”

“I already told you, I’ll leave you to go on your pedestrian dates in peace,” Sherlock snarled at him.

“I mean all of it has to stop!” John waved his hands in a vaguely all-encompassing fashion. “The touching, the looking, all of it. You can’t just use me like that to get what you want anymore! It’s so far past not good, you couldn’t see it on a clear day with binoculars.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his eyes indecipherable.

“Really, John, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sat down again, clearly making an effort to sound bored and indifferent.

“Yes, you bloody well do. You let people think we’re together all the time. If they were just making the assumption on their own, fine, I could deal with it, I have before. But you _deliberately_ make people think it. You touch my leg, you stand too close, you look at me like you’d like nothing better than to take me home, strip me naked and do unspeakable things to me.”

Sherlock’s reaction was worth the embarrassment having to spell things out caused John. His face was flushed, his eyes restless, and he was scratching his own trouser leg absently. He looked like a little boy caught sneaking sweets in class. Or, being Sherlock, caught performing experiments on the neighbour’s cat.

Without consciously making the decision to, John released his grip on the chair and walked over to the sofa. He sat carefully down on the coffee table, facing Sherlock.

“So here it is. You have two choices. Whatever you decide is fine, but you have to choose. I am done playing these games with you. I think you know how I feel about you - ”

Sherlock’s head jerked up at this, his steely eyes wide, and he started to speak. John cut him off.

“Nope, I’m not done, I get to say this first. Your first option is that you can be my friend, and be a proper friend, which means giving me my space when I want it and letting me pick up women in peace. You will not imply to anyone, in any situation, that we are a couple, unless you have my express permission beforehand.”

Eyes narrow, Sherlock asked cautiously:

“What’s my second option?”

John felt his pulse pick up speed, and he was suddenly acutely aware of every inch of his body.

“Your second option is to kiss me right now, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

***

John wondered later if he’d ever have been able to work up the courage to lay down the law like that if he hadn’t been so immensely ticked off. He liked to think he would, but wasn’t sure.

Upon hearing John’s second option, Sherlock’s eyes widened a little before he sat back and brought his fingers to his lips. John recognised the look. Sherlock was deliberating, weighing, judging.

Fine, thought John. Good. Take your time. Think about it. It’s quite possibly going to affect the rest of my life. By all means, take as long as you need.

He sat still on the coffee table, trying desperately not to fidget. He was aiming for some posture between confidence and indifference, and he knew he was failing horribly. Part of him had expected Sherlock to immediately scoff at this second option, leaping off the chair in indignation. The fact that he hadn’t done this had left John a curious mixture of hope and fear. The rejection, if it came, was sure to be stinging.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned forward, his hands moving to rest gently on John’s thighs. He kept coming, and for a moment John was sure Sherlock was going to kiss him, until he finally stopped, his face mere centimetres from John’s.

“I think,” he said softly, “I think I’d like to take the second option.”

And then Sherlock _was_ kissing him, and John took a moment to enjoy the sheer, utter relief that flooded through him before fisting his hands in Sherlock’s lapels and pulling him closer, returning the kiss enthusiastically.

This went on for some time.

It wasn’t until John found himself half sitting in Sherlock’s lap, with Sherlock’s hands surreptitiously undoing his shirt buttons that John thought to ask a few questions.

“Stop, stop, wait,” he gasped, trying to bat Sherlock’s hands away.

Sherlock made a disapproving noise and redoubled his efforts, and John gave himself over to the heady sensation of Sherlock’s hands and lips on his skin for a few minutes.

The next time his brain reasserted itself, John found himself lying underneath Sherlock, his shirt entirely undone, and Sherlock making a valiant effort to ensure that no one who looked at John’s neck would have any doubts about what he’d been doing. His own hands were equally busy: one splayed across Sherlock's back, under his shirt, the other heroically attempting to remove Sherlock’s belt. It was not succeeding, but it was giving it a damn good try.

John knew he had to halt this right now, or they would have gone from shouting at each other to having sex in under ten minutes. Not exactly how he wanted to remember their first time, especially since it was becoming apparent that they certainly would be having a first time, and hopefully a few hundred more. Besides, he still had a few questions.

“No, really, Sherlock, wait,” he said, pushing Sherlock up and off him. Sherlock appeared incredibly displeased at the move, sending a hot, twisting feeling shooting through John’s stomach.

“What?” he asked, and it sounded suspiciously like a whine.

“We need to talk about this! When I said ‘see where we’ll go from there’, I didn’t mean having sex in the living room right now!”

Sherlock looked disappointed.

“What could you possibly want to talk about? You gave me an ultimatum – ” Sherlock frowned at him – “and I made a decision. Simple.” He moved back in to kiss John again.

“No, no, wait! For fuck’s sake, Sherlock!” he exclaimed as Sherlock reapplied his lips to John and snaked a hand under his waistband.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Exactly” before pulling his hands out and sitting on them. John quickly moved back onto the coffee table, sliding it a bit farther away from Sherlock, until there was three feet of space between their knees. No sense in increasing temptation.

“Fine, talk,” Sherlock said.

Now that he’d been instructed to do so, John wasn’t sure where to begin.

“Err… well, I guess you’ve chosen option two.”

Sherlock glared. The unspoken “Obvious!” hung in the air.

“Right, right,” John added hastily. “I guess I’m just wondering… well, why?”

A sigh.

“Well, _obviously_ , John, I am attracted to you, both sexually and romantically. I have no previous experience in these matters, having never found a potential partner worth the effort and complications that inevitably follow from such attachments. Both this lack of previous experience and the aforementioned complications caused me to hesitate and consider your proposal for a few minutes. I came to the conclusion that this was the more favourable outcome.”

John tried not to gape at him.

“Um, okay?” he tried, tentatively. “What about the other stuff? You know, all the touching, and all the interrupting my dates and so on. I mean, you’d be perfectly happy to flirt with me in front of other people, but the minute you’d got what you wanted, you barely looked at me.” He hoped he didn’t sound as much like a teenage girl as he strongly suspected he did.

A stare.

“I already told you. I have a romantic and sexual attraction to you, and no desire to see you wasting your time with the incredibly dull women you tend to favour with your attention.”

“Yes, I get that, but why did you never say or do anything? I mean, you must have deduced my interest in you?”

A blush. A mumble.

John stared at him.

“Hang on,” he said slowly. “You mean to say you didn’t know I was interested in you? How is that possible? Surely you realised flirting me out of any and all situations was working wonders for you?”

Sherlock was still blushing.

“Not, not exactly. That is, I knew you were _physically_ attracted to me, and if I dangled the possibility of sex with me in front of you, you’d certainly respond. But I didn’t know you wanted anything more than – that is to say, that you were interested in – ”

John had rarely seen Sherlock so flustered. It was adorable.

“You thought I was only after a quick shag?”

Sherlock shot him a dirty look, but his cheeks remained pink.

John tried desperately not to gloat, but what he really wanted was to hire a sixteen-piece band and throw a parade on Baker Street.

“I’m not,” he added, just to be clear.

“Yes, thank you, John, I gathered that,” Sherlock returned acerbically. He edged closer to the end of the sofa. “Can we please go back to the kissing now?”

John pretended to consider this.

“I suppose so,” he said eventually, when Sherlock looked like he was about to combust with impatience.

Within a second, Sherlock had his hands on John’s arms and was pulling him towards him surprisingly gently. He lowered John back onto the sofa and climbed on top of him.

“Good,” he breathed, his lips hovering above John’s.

“Very good,” John agreed, before lifting his head the final few millimetres to capture Sherlock’s lips.

 

  


  


  
**A Brief Epilogue**   


  


  
_Three Months Later_   


  


The woman next to him was pleasant enough, John supposed. She had curly blonde hair and seemed willing to laugh at everything he said.

John signaled to the bartender to bring him another drink. He checked his watch. Sherlock should have been here ten minutes ago.

“I’m Mary, by the way,” the woman said, holding out her hand so he had no choice but to take it.

“John,” he returned, trying to communicate Not Interested as politely as he could.

“And what do you do, John?” she asked, her hand lingering on his arm.

“I’m a doctor.”

“Oh, a doctor!” she exclaimed, looking extremely pleased.

Should’ve lied, John thought. Should’ve told her I’m a plumber or something.

“Well it’s very nice to meet you, John the Doctor,” she continued. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” he said, gesturing to his recently replenished drink.

“Well, when you’re done with that one,” she said, scooting her bar stool closer to his.

John was contemplating simply telling her to shove off when he felt a long arm wrapping around his waist. He turned his head, happy, and was met with the full force of Sherlock’s lips pressing against his.

He turned himself in his seat, working his arms under Sherlock’s coat. When Sherlock started to draw back, clearly meaning nothing more than a kiss hello, John chased his lips, sealing his and Sherlock’s together again. He ran his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip and coaxed his mouth open, kissing him deeply. Sherlock adjusted to the new position willingly, hooking a finger in John’s belt loop to tug him closer and running the fingers of his other hand through John’s hair. It was an incredibly endearing habit of his, something he did every time they kissed in public. The sweetness of it made John almost dizzy.

The sensation of Sherlock’s tongue exploring his mouth was an incredibly distracting one, but eventually John became aware that this was perhaps not the best place for this. He heard the bartender clearing his throat loudly, and he broke away, trying to stifle a giggle.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he took a moment to open them, running his tongue along his bottom lip. It may just have been the most arousing thing John had ever seen, and he suddenly felt the need to get Sherlock home, undressed, and in his bed (or possibly on the sofa, or even the doorway, John was feeling rather impatient) as soon as possible.

Linking his hand with Sherlock’s, he turned to Mary, who was staring at them.

“Mary, this is Sherlock, my boyfriend. Sherlock, Mary.”

Sherlock gave her his best Normal Person smile and simpered, “Pleased to meet you.”

“And now,” he added, “we have to go.”

Leaving Mary sitting dumbstruck at the bar, John hustled Sherlock outside and into a cab.

“What about dinner?” Sherlock asked innocently, but John could see the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, threatening to break free at any moment.

“Dinner? Dinner’s boring,” John said.

Sherlock smirked.

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking.”

John silenced him the only way he knew how.  


  


**Author's Note:**

> The Sherlock loving marshmallows thing is a little tribute to [this ](http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/9177.html)chapter of [](http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/profile)[ **atlinmerrick**](http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/) 's lovely story [Minutiae](http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/9177.html).
> 
> Also, if you see any formatting problems, please let me know, I had hell with this one for some reason.


End file.
